


Never Be Together

by Tobyaudax



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Barry will be honest, Disabled Character, Fluff, M/M, Mick will be as honest as he can be, Mostly Fluff, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, but some angst gets in there, hints/mentions of past abuse, semi-unreliable narrator Len, some swears, thanks Len
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-13 15:18:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14115183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tobyaudax/pseuds/Tobyaudax
Summary: Barry and Mick have been hooking up and getting to know each other (well, mostly Barry is getting to know Mick) for a good while now. Things are going well- there are restful nights spent at each other's places, cooking together and sharing musicals (again, mostly Barry on that last one). So it just makes sense that Leonard Snart chooses to return from the dead/timestream/wherever the hell he was and try to ruin things.Len vows he'll get Mick back and keep him all to himself, but Barry just doesn't know how to give up, especially when what he has is so good... and can get so much better.





	1. I'm Sore in the Weirdest Places

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to yet another un-planned, on-going ColdFlashWave story by me!
> 
> These first two chapters were prompts from tumblr that spiraled out of control and have spawned this unholy series (unholy to me because I have another giant story and WsIP I should be writing). Updates will be _incredibly_ sporadic and I apologize in advance for the no-doubt lengthy delays after chapter two goes up.
> 
> The title is a misnomer and a Pretender's song. [Please listen here- it's really great!](https://youtu.be/-Q7x6FxbS8s) [Lyrics here](https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/pretenders/neverbetogether.html), because they inspired the use of the song title.

"I hate Flash-proof alcohol," Barry moans into Mick's broad, partially scarred chest.

His brain takes a while to work through that; to process the feeling of the man underneath him and the warm hand on the small of his back, keeping him firmly, yet comfortably, in place. Barry loves to cuddle- he actually prefers curling up against and around someone to having sex with them. It's close, though; sex is _amazing_ , but there's just something about the intimacy involved in tangled limbs and lazy hands in his hair that makes him melt.

He's naked and Mick is at least partially so, so there is a distinct possibility that they've slept together. In fact, as Barry's horrible but mercifully brief hangover clears, he recalls in vivid detail the night he spent with Mick Rory. And the fact that this wasn't even their first time.

Mick grumbles and shifts, his arm flexing almost painfully around Barry's waist. "M'sore in th'weirdest places," he mutters into Barry's hair.

"That was your idea," Barry laughs. Mick turns his head and opens one eye, expression caught between questioning and annoyed. He's even less of a morning person than Barry usually is. "You said something about, uhm… 'titty-fucking'? And I didn't- I mean, I _knew_ what it _was_ …" Barry looks away, embarrassed and too sober. It had been a lot easier to do- and talk about- when he and Mick were both the fun side of drunk.

"…Doesn't really explain-"

"You _insisted_ I try it _everywhere_. Let's just- never talk about this again?"

"Deal." Mick's hand roams idly over Barry's back, up to his shoulder blades and down to cup his butt more gently than Barry thought he was capable of. "You got anywhere t'be- now, or, today?"

Barry fights off the grin he knows Mick will feel even through the rough patches of scar tissue littering his torso. There's a hopeful note in Mick's voice, though anyone else would likely miss that through the mumbling and gravel. But Barry's taken the time- what little they've spent together- to notice these things. He can tell when Mick is upset through eyebrow ticks and lip twitches; the way he crosses his left arm over his right indicates he's pissed off about whatever's being discussed. Even his breathing is a tell- when he inhales a certain way or lets a sigh out too long, he's excited or sad.

The only other person who'd ever been able to read Mick so well was probably Leonard Snart. Barry refuses to be jealous of the dead; he's with Mick, now, and that is the time that counts. Somewhere around their fourth or fifth time together, Barry decided he was serious about Mick and began his crusade of careful observation and inventory of the older man's likes and dislikes. There are, sadly, too many of the latter. But the list of the former grows every time Barry sees Mick, so someday, he'll have a perfect database of Mick Rory's Likes. He stopped lying to himself weeks ago about his desire to hold the number one position on that list.

"I'm off till Tuesday," Barry finally tells him, delighting in the way every muscle beneath him relaxes. Mick brings his other arm around and wraps Barry up tight, foolishly thinking the speedster would want to be anywhere else in that moment. "All yours." He adds, biting off the uncertain "for as long as you want me" that almost escapes. Mick likes certainty and decisiveness, things Snart had down pat. It isn't that Mick can't make his own choices- he hates being told what to do, even when on the Waverider ( _especially_ there)- but more that he likes a little direction, every now and then. He gets aimless and lost, sometimes; something with which Barry can easily sympathize.

"Dunno if I wanna keep ya here or maybe… make that cake we saw on that show…"

'Here' is in bed all day, which they've done before. The last time- exactly one week ago, Barry recalls- they only had sex once. The rest of their day was spent laying side-by-side or tangled together or with Mick on his side, his big hands exploring every inch of Barry, memorizing him by touch and sight. They barely said complete sentences to each other, and most of the talking was done by Barry, but it was one of the best days he'd ever had. When Mick does talk, it's about missions with the Legends, fire, baking and, recently and rarely, his childhood. Barry can recite every word from Mick's past- he committed the few stories Mick was willing to share instantly to memory.

"You know I'm always up for food-based activities," Barry suggests. He gives his shoulders a roll and gets the desired reaction of Mick's hands climbing up to massage the muscles there. Barry hums earnestly at the way Mick's thumbs know just where to go; it helps that Mick enjoys the subtle praise. He doesn't accept words, still has a tendency to doubt most of the good he does, but Barry has learned which actions best let Mick know that what he's doing is appreciated.

"How's the kitchen? You got all the stuff?"

"Yep," Barry pops the 'p' and smiles into the crook of Mick's neck for a moment. "Went shopping, like, right after you left last time. We are fully stocked and good to go!"

Mick finishes his ministrations and gives Barry's butt a loud, double-handed smack, making the speedster squawk with laughter and cling to him even tighter. The move is calculated and Barry looks forward to a time that Mick will be able to just ask for a hug. Affection is still new for Mick and it hasn't been easy for Barry to move so slowly; to keep his need to touch, talk and share in check. But he knows Mick is worth the wait, worth easing into the beautifully blossoming thing between them. It's a journey and every hesitant smile, awkward touch and Mick-initiated kiss is a prize along the way.

They eventually get out of bed and shrug into various states of dress on their way into the kitchen. Barry puts on music from the ever-growing playlist he's compiling of songs Mick hasn't told him to change and ones that Barry has discovered he actually enjoys. There is no ABBA or Captain & Tennille in Barry's apartment; he'll never forget the day Mick stormed out to the opening strains of "Love Will Keep Us Together". And they're still working out, between them, which version of _Fiddler on the Roof_ is the best one; Barry has a fondness for Zero Mostel, but Mick insists Topol's register is the only one fit for Tevye. They both love Bea Arthur as Yente, though.

The "cake" Mick had alluded to is an almond torte and it turns out perfectly, despite Mick's insistence that the filling is a little dry around the edges. Barry says they can just add more whipped cream- that Barry had to whip by hand four times before Mick told him the consistency was right. The entire torte is eaten while they watch Sondheim and Furth's _Company_ ("The 2006 version is the best one- just trust me"); Barry knows Mick's only seen it once and has lost count of how many times it's been for him. He watches Mick more than Raúl Esparza; Barry records and catalogs every reaction, files expressions away for later analysis and enjoyment. He takes special note of the songs Mick likes best and will learn them all over again to sing on demand.

They wash the dishes together and Barry starts a whipped cream fight by "innocently" dabbing some on the tip of Mick's nose and then licking it off before the other man knows what he's done. He's eventually caught- Barry insists he didn't _let_ Mick grab him- and then tickled into submission. They tumble back into bed sometime after 2 a.m. and Barry knows, wrapped up in Mick's warm, rough arms and with his gentle snores ruffling Barry's hair, that it won't be long before all the "I love you"s break free from his carefully sealed lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-outs to [Nixie_DeAngel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nixie_DeAngel/pseuds/Nixie_DeAngel), [blue_wonderer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_wonderer/pseuds/blue_wonderer) and [Sophia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SophiaCatherine/pseuds/SophiaCatherine) for inspiration, support and continuing assistance in broadening my writer-ly horizons!
> 
> (My fave version of _Fiddler_ is the one starring Topol.)


	2. Sneaking Out Half-Dressed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Triumphant Return of Leonard Snart. Or: Things with Mick Ended Badly but That's What Second (Third, Tenth, Fortieth) Chances are for.
> 
> Len returns to reclaim Mick, to pick up where they left off before Rip Hunter bungled into their lives. He doesn't expect Barry Allen to have taken up residence in so many different ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the "semi-unreliable narrator" portion of this story! Len lies to himself, but sometimes he doesn't. He lies to Mick a little and he lies to Barry. 
> 
> _This is nearly three times as long as the previous chapter because Len really inspired me. There's no telling how short or long future chapters will be._

He didn't mean to spend the night. He hadn't intended to stay more than a few minutes, once he realized that Mick wasn't alone. And wasn't that a surprise. Oh, he didn't delude himself that they were anything "special"; that there was anything more between them than a good partnership ("Debatable", he chides himself) and 30 plus years' worth of scratched itches. At least, he never used to think otherwise. Mick never had anyone else in his life- ever since they met in juvie, a lifetime ago- so it had always been just the two of them (and Lisa makes three). They matched each other perfectly when they weren't butting heads; Mick never said much, but he missed even less. While the people around them were watching Len, dismissing Mick as the muscle, Mick was confirming all the weak links, memorizing faces and who had a problem with the plan.

They were never the other's number one priority, though. Lisa always came first for Len and fire was Mick's true love. He knew he couldn't compete, couldn't hope to replace such an obsession, but Leonard Snart wasn't one to just give up a fight. He bought and stole lighters; he found ways to incorporate explosions and blazes into as many jobs as possible. And when he reacted… poorly and left Mick to his mistress (it was Mick's fault- he let the fire get out of control- Len tried to warn him- it wasn't his fault), Len made up for it with the little heat gun. The game, the challenge and being the best- those things had always been Len's dream, his life. Mick had only ever wanted to watch the world burn. They got along so well, except for that.

It was possible that Len didn't handle things with the Legends well. He allowed that, perhaps, he hadn't always made the best decisions regarding Mick. Where everyone else had always underestimated him, Len had actually overestimated Mick's abilities when he'd left him in the middle of nowhere. He didn't know about the Time Masters and so didn't allow himself to shoulder any involvement for Cronos. If he'd had any idea people like that were on their tails, he would have planned better- would've gone back for Mick much sooner (gone back for him at all). But all of the information that Len had had pointed to Mick holding out just fine, and only being a little bit pissed when Len finally picked him up. Mick grew up on a farm, he was familiar with the outdoors, his father was in the military, and if anyone knew how to build a fire, it was Mick Fucking Rory. He should've been just fine- no damage done a quick fist fight and couple beers couldn't repair. But for the first time since he was a kid and stupidly thought a good plan would make Lewis like him, Len had miscalculated.

The Oculus was the closest he thought he could come to apologizing. For leaving Mick (he did need to cool off- he was getting out of control again), for not picking him up sooner (not picking him up at all- things get a little hectic in the 'saving the world' racket)… and for dragging him into the whole mess in the first place. It was probably the only nice thing Len would ever do. At least, it would've been, if he'd stayed dead.

Len's memories of the time stream had, mercifully, faded; resurfacing in half-remembered dreams that only occasionally woke him up screaming. He'd become perfectly adept at the fancy prosthetic arm he picked up from Raymond's company in the 2050s (time travel was practically boring, now that he could do it with little more than a thought). He made what passed for peace with the Legends ("Dick move, waiting until Rory was off-ship to show your face, Leonard. Never pegged you for a coward." Sara was as pleasantly blunt as ever). And he spent weeks making it all up to Lisa (he's both relieved and disappointed she's not dating Ramon- the kid's the only partially-decent person his baby sister's ever been interested in). All that remained was to track Mick down and see if there was anything left between them to salvage.

 He checked three safe houses before moving on to the apartment they sometimes squatted in. It was just across the river from Keystone and, when he and Mick had left with the Legends, had been in a particularly nasty part of town. But sinister tendrils of gentrification had snuck in in their (or just Len's) absence; there were more streetlights then he remembered, an organic grocer on the corner of their street and the entire neighborhood looked like it had received several coats of paint from caring hands. Len thought he was going to throw up- there was no way Mick would stay in a place like that. Though that better grocery store and a quaint little bakery seemed to suggest otherwise.

It was early evening when he let himself into the flat- he'd scouted it all day from a couple buildings over, taking note of everyone who entered and left, not once catching sight of Mick. Normally, he would case a place for weeks or months before making a move, but this was Mick. He would react in one of two ways- punch Len or just shut the door in his face. And if it turned out the apartment was occupied by someone else, well, Len was very good at breaking and entering- they'd never know he was there. He climbed the fire escape, avoiding all the places that squeaked or groaned, wondering if maybe they'd all been oiled during the neighborhood clean-up.

He crouched outside the window and peered through the curtains- well, that was new; there were ratty, bent blinds last time- to the interior lit dimly from a source in the kitchen. It was a lot tidier than they'd left it, but the mess was usually due to their not staying long enough to properly clean. In addition to actual curtains, the furniture had been updated and what Len could see of the corner kitchen had been renovated. He almost left then, deciding Mick had moved on, as well, but a sparkle of silver caught his eye and he smirked at the narrow china cabinet filled with lighters both vintage and new. Little flashes of light from near the entertainment center lit up the coffee table, revealing a mixture of muscle car and science magazines, as well as a few issues of National Geographic and WIRED. Mick had always meant to learn more about chemistry- for both fire and baking related purposes.

Confidence renewed, Len carefully slipped through the window and took in the additional changes. The place felt lived-in, comfortable and… a lot like a home. It was incredibly strange and, at the same time, poked at a longing inside him that had lain dormant for decades. He could see himself on the sofa, legs thrown over the arm rest and watching a Combines game or Shark Week. He could see Mick in the kitchen, putting together snacks he'd claim he wasn't going to share while making up facts about Great Whites. Images of blueprints for secure facilities on the dining nook table faded into junk mail, holiday cards and recipe books.

Len bit back a laugh and shook his head, skirting the couch and running the fingers of his right hand over the soft leather. It was burgundy- close enough to fire that it fit in Mick's life. The kitchen was immaculate, but that wasn't surprising; when Mick had time to bake and cook, he kept an orderly space. Len had been chased out of Mick's kitchens with everything ranging from thrown dish towels to meat hammers. Every shelf in the fridge was full- the appliance was practically bursting with food! Take-out containers were lined up neatly beside Tupperware and glass dishes. There were far fewer six packs than Len thought there'd be and he frowned at the out-of-place hipster brews and bottle of rosé; it was possible Mick was seeing someone. Len cursed himself for not considering that possibility.

With that idea taking root, he turned a more critical eye back to the apartment. There were a couple video gaming consoles underneath the large TV; the movies in the shelves on either side of the entertainment center were mostly Mick's, but there were box sets of crime shows and an embarrassment of romantic comedies (he recognized _Kate & Leopold_ because Lisa made him see it. And Hugh Jackman was hot). There were also a few musicals he knew Mick hadn't seen, but must have since found the time to watch.

Len took in the overstuffed armchair to one side of the couch and the cardigan tossed over the back; something was familiar about it, tickling at the back of his mind, but he filed it away for later. He just needed to see Mick and get the whole thing over with. Since his old partner didn't enter or leave the building in the past 24 hours, he must have spent the day in- that left one of the two bedrooms or the bathroom left to explore. The last time Len was there, the spare bedroom housed some of Mick's weights and a motorcycle in pieces that Mick had planned on repairing and reassembling someday. Easing the door open revealed new exercise equipment in place of the free weights, including a rather futuristic-looking treadmill. The bike was gone and Len felt a surprising pang of loss; it had been such a constant in their lives that, to see it missing was both jarring and… sad.

He sighed and backed out of the room, finally resigned to the confrontation. The apartment had remained silent the entire time Len was looking around, but he had definitely felt the presence of at least one other person. Mick was in the bedroom, but he wasn't alone. Len opened the door slowly, craning his neck around to squint into the brighter light cast by two bedside lamps. Mick was sitting up in bed, shirtless, with the sheets- new, red, flannel- pooled in his lap. His glasses were perched on the tip of his nose and he was reading- the hardcover's jacket had been removed and Mick's big hand obscured the spine. On the right side of the bed- Len's side- a man was wrapped up in the rest of the sheets, his back to Mick and only the sharp angle of his jaw and a shock of brown hair against the pillow were visible.

"Wondered when you'd work up the guts t'come in," Mick muttered without looking up from his book. Of course he'd known the moment Len arrived.

"Wanted to have a look around." Len matched Mick's quiet tone. He shrugged and moved into the room, leaning against the doorframe. "See what changed. …If you were even still here."

"S'good place. They're cleanin' up the whole neighborhood, makin' it better. Kinda makin' it worse, too."

"Who's your little friend?" _How serious is it? How long have you been with him? Did you replace me?_

Mick looked over at the bed's other occupant, seemingly surprised to see him there. His face softened in a way Len had never witnessed before and something in Len's chest flared, burned, vowed to win the expression for himself and destroy anything that stood in his way. "Ah, s'just Red. He's been spendin' the night a lot. Gets tired from runnin' around."

Len went through his mental encyclopedia of Nicknames Mick Has for People and came up distressingly empty. "Red" had come after Len. …"Red" may have replaced him. He started to ask if Mick even knew the guy's real name, thinking, perhaps, that they could just slip into their old banter. Pretend nothing had changed and that they were going to just pick things up where they'd left off… before the Waverider, Cronos, and the Oculus. But the other man stirred, yawning so wide that his jaw creaked, and rolled over to blink bleary, familiar, eyes at Len.

"Is Snart back or am I still asleep?" Barry Allen asked as he sat up. The sheet crept down his slim torso, revealing he was just as undressed as Mick. _Tired from running around, indeed._

"If you can see 'im, he's back," Mick responded. And that was something Len would have to pick apart later. Witty retorts and a smug smile were beyond him in that moment; he couldn't stop staring at Barry, sleep-rumpled and looking perfectly content, at home, beside Mick in bed. On Len's side of Len and Mick's bed. Barry smiled, first at Mick and then turning the power of the sun on Len. It took a great deal of effort not to narrow his eyes at the sincerity of the expression.

"Did you just get in? Or- back? Were you dead or, just, like, part of the Time Stream. I was part of the Speed Force for a while, once. It's… an adjustment, getting back…"

Barry referred to both the time stream and his little speed dimension with capitol letters, like both were more than just places or constructs; like they were aware, or even… alive. Len refused to think about the implications of sentience in the 'stream- if there was an intelligence of any kind there, it was as cruel as any human being, to leave Len stranded, floating, Unmade, for so long. But Barry kept smiling as he talked about other dimensions, alien states of being, like it was casual conversation. A short bark of laughter startled past Len's lips- that kind of thing probably _was_ commonplace for Barry and his friends. And now, Len and Mick, as well, it seemed.

"Been alive for… oh, a little while, now," Len started, wrestling the old drawl over his words and forcing a casual, uncaring slump into his shoulders. "Had to stop in and see Lisa. You understand- family first."

He directed the last sentence at Mick, intending to wound, at least sting, with the barb. _You left him, first. Multiple times. He should move on- he should leave_ you _. You've never been good enough-._ Mick nodded almost absently, blinking once to acknowledge he got Len's meaning. Mick had always been smarter than everyone- even Len, sometimes- gave him credit for.

"Uh, so, are you sticking around Central, then? Dunno if you found the Legends already-"

"I did."

"But, yeah. Mick's pretty much working with me, uh, Team Flash, these days." Barry's smile faltered a little and he glanced over at Mick.

"He doing all the talking, now?" Len found his smirk and settled it comfortably over his face. He directed the question to Mick, but he didn't take his eyes off Barry. "Your new mouth- and side piece?"

"Maybe f'you ask me somethin', I'll talk t'you, asshole."

"Oh my god- did you guys used to- _date_? Were you _together_ -together?!"

"Yes, Barry," Len rolled his eyes to fix the speedster with a dry stare. "We were high school sweethearts. Mick gave me his ring and letterman jacket and we _totally_ went steady."

Mick surprised him by laughing first- it was a choked sound that evolved into a chuckle and then a full-blown guffaw. Barry looked between them for a few seconds, trying to suss out any truth in the statements. Len's smirk returned and threatened to turn into a genuine smile when Barry finally caught on and let out an almost girlish giggle. The tension between them seemed to crack, after that; the feeling of being an intruder (he was) and spying on something he wasn't meant to see started to fade like so many time stream nightmares.

Barry had sleep pants on when he climbed out of bed a few minutes later. Mick was just wearing boxer shorts and Len reacquainted his eyes with the lines of Mick's body. He was relieved that there were no new scars. He felt Barry watching him during the appraisal and ignored the sensation of the speedster's eyes boring into him. He couldn't tell whether the look he'd find would be angry, judging or just sad, and he refused to turn around and see. Len was growing less certain about being able to re-insert himself into his old place in Mick's life.

They relocated to the kitchen, where Mick warmed up some leftovers and Len made fun of Barry's taste in wine. Len talked about his farewells to the Legends and Barry filled him in on what had happened around Central during his… absence. Len didn't mention his arm and, though he felt Barry's eyes on it, the younger man didn't ask. Mick chimed in with his own, brief commentary, supplementing minor details in Barry's stories between bites of ravioli. Len sat on a stool on the outside of the kitchen island and watched Mick and Barry touch shoulders every time one of them lifted a fork to their mouths. Mick never once flinched away or even made a face when smooth, freckled skin brushed against scar tissue. Barry, however, grinned like the women in one of his rom-coms who'd just fallen in love. It was disgusting and Len hated it. It was painful and Len wanted it.

It was early in the morning when Barry yawned again, stifling the action too late and then laughing sheepishly about it. Len set his plate in the sink, refusing to wash it and earning a familiar, fond glare from Mick in the process. He didn't acknowledge the warmth that spread through him, chasing out a chill that had settled in hours earlier. Barry asked where he was staying, if he was holed up in a safe house, ware house or if Lisa was letting him "bunk" with her. There was a hotel a few miles away- he planned on walking. Mick saw right through the lie and Len wondered if he'd always been able to do that, or if being dead had dulled Len's truth-altering abilities.

More flannel sheets were produced and Barry made up the couch at super speed, and then tamed the hurricane of magazines he'd created. All three of them stood somewhat awkwardly in the middle of the room, the couch and bedroom behind them. Len wanted to walk boldly into the bedroom and reclaim his rightful place, but it felt… off, now. Not quite "wrong", but that he wouldn't fit in the bed; that he would be too big or too small for the space and would end up looking ridiculous and feeling entirely out of place. Which he was, on all counts, though he certainly wouldn't admit to any of it.

"I'll just-"

"You can stay with-"

"Plenty'a room in the bed."

They all spoke at once- Barry's words tripping over Len's and then Mick's cutting through the clamor. Barry and Len turned incredulous eyes on Mick who shrugged as if he hadn't just suggested they all sleep together. Len thought about it; glancing at Barry out of the corner of his eye revealed that the speedster was, too. Mick mumbled something that could've been "g'night" or "idiots" and slumped back into the bedroom, letting the door hang half open- an invitation. Len studied Barry through narrowed eyes and dared him, with a look, to take Mick up on it. To allow Len into that intimate space that once was Len's, alone.

"I mean," Barry shrugged helplessly, a blush lighting up his face and spreading like a slow-motion wave down to his still-bare chest. "I don't mind. You don't have to- Mick can be in the middle. I, uh… I trust you."

And there it was, all the reason Len needed to decline. It didn't matter that Len wouldn't mind, either. It didn't matter that he'd been attracted to Barry for as long as he'd known the kid. It didn't even matter that Barry seemed to find something he liked about Len, as well. The problems were "trust" and Mick and the fact that Barry thought he had a right to dole out either. Len gifted Barry with a condescending smile and spread his hands at the sofa graciously.

"I'll be just fine out here." And, before he could stop himself or even think better of it, "I don't need your fucking trust."

Barry winced as though Len had slapped him and that just made Len's smile broaden. He watched the younger man practically limp into the bedroom and forced his smile into a painful grin when the door slowly closed. He shucked his coat and threw it onto the armchair, dislodging the cardigan- Barry's cardigan- and sneering at it where it lay crumpled on the floor. Len wrestled with his shirt, catching a loose thread on his prosthetic and clenching his teeth painfully to keep his cursing at bay. He forced several long, deep breaths, then slipped the sweater, and the t-shirt underneath it, over his head and sent them sailing to join his jacket. His boots were untied, toed off and left leaning against each other under the coffee table. Finally, he unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans and stepped out of them, leaving them inside-out on the floor.

He lay on top of the sheets that he only left on because the leather sofa would get hot and uncomfortable beneath him otherwise. Sleep was elusive; he was too angry, too wounded and raw and bitter. He turned everything around and around in his head, all the facts, the looks and touches that Barry and Mick had shared. He replayed that soft, gentle smile Mick had just for Barry over and over. He left the prosthetic on and, when he woke up unknowable hours later (he hadn't checked the time before laying down and his internal clock had been shot since he'd died), his elbow and up his bicep were sore and throbbing. He'd have to go back to 2050 and have it adjusted. Or maybe he could suck up some pride and ask Raymond to take a look at the arm. He'd created the prototype, after all.

Milky grey sunlight started to filter through the curtains and Len decided that was his cue to leave. Mick was happy- the right thing to do would be to get out of Central and never look back. Lisa had been fine without him and they hadn't seen much of each other for years before the metahuman explosion, anyway. Maybe he'd see for himself how bad things were in Star City. Maybe the Legends would take him back. …Maybe he would just fade into the time stream and try again in another lifetime.

That last thought had him sitting upright abruptly, teeth bared in a silent, defiant snarl. He wasn't a quitter- he wasn't just going to give up, no matter how things looked! He'd never tapped out on a job, never taken on a task he didn't see through to completion… and he'd never really given up on Mick. Barry might be a nice distraction, a vacation from what Mick was used to, but he couldn't last. There was no way for Barry to understand what Mick (along with, alongside, Len) had been through. They were utterly incompatible, in the long run.

Len smiled as he got dressed in the soft, semi-darkness. He couldn't find his shirts- he'd thrown them a little too hard, apparently- so he just zipped his jacket up and stepped gingerly, quietly, into his boots. He left through the front door- no note, no longing glances into the bedroom. He left the apartment with the beginnings of a plan blossoming in his mind.

It was true- Leonard Snart couldn't compete with fire for Mick's affections. But Barry Allen? Nice guy, do-gooder, superhero? The kid didn't stand a chance against him. Mick would be back in Len's life in no time, at Flash speed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I miscalculated what the price was  
>  Falling for the pretty face can cost  
> Wandering for hours in the turmoil  
> Oh, I'm lost  
> The colour of your eyes was like a palette  
> Thousand shades of blue were mixed up there  
> Drowning in the wave that put me under  
> I'm drowning, I'm drowning_
> 
> _Oh no, we'll never  
>  We'll never be together  
> Never, never  
> We'll never be together_
> 
> -Never Be Together, The Pretenders.


End file.
